


Tale of the Custom Champions

by NorroenDyrd



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Adopted Hawke, Awkward Hawke, Backstory, Custom Hawke, Elf-Blooded Hawke (Dragon Age), Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Qunari Hawke - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 10:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12604772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: It may not be a widely known fact, but sometimes the Champion of Kirkwall is neither Garrett nor Marian.





	Tale of the Custom Champions

**Author's Note:**

> I recently came across a really vitriolic anti-custom-Hawke online conversation, and here is my kinda passive aggressive response to it: a description of my custom Hawkes.

In the majority of the possible worlds, the famed Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, is either a man named Garrett or a woman named Marian, with jet-black hair and striking eyes and a dash of blood-red caddis (so very Fereldan) across their face. The people know them; the people love them; the people revel in Varric’s tales of their exploits and chuckle at the sarcastic humour they fling defiantly in the face of danger. And in most cases, enamoured with Hawke’s look of strength and confidence, and with their vibrant personality, Varric’s readers wish for no other Champion. And who could blame them? It is only fair that such charismatic figures become so dear to their hearts. But still, other Champions do exist - sometimes, in some stories, they do make a tentative appearance of their own.  
  
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Summer Hawke - not her real name but a friendly monicker given by Varric (just as her sister is Sunshine). Bearing her freckles like a mantle of star dust, never quite getting her spiky copper hair to behave, she looks upon the world with eagerly glinting steel-grey eyes, and makes a point of never concealing her ears - which, being ever so slightly pointed, may betray to a suspicious eye that, in this version of the Champion’s legend, her father, the late Malcolm Hawke, was not only an apostate on the run, but also an elf. Quick to laugh, quick to sing, and quick to forgive, Summer tries her best to bring a little spark of golden light even when the skies over Kirkwall are heavily overcast. Every misfit washed by the tides of fate onto the shores of the City of Chains may count on her being there for them, springing up on them with a hug and a welcome cake and a shrill, verbose invitation to a simple but fun-filled party in her home. Of course, being so open of heart and soul has its downsides, and between her and Daisy, the latter is far more mature - but whoever abuses this Hawke’s unconditional love is in for a glowing blue fist in the chest and a crossbow bolt somewhat below.  
  
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Donalbain, or Donnie, Hawke, and sports a mane of light-brown hair and a bristling stubble. A huge mountain of a warrior, Donnie is not the sharpest axe on the weapon rack, and a lot of his companions’ witty banter goes way over his head. This brings him a lot of shame, and also a lot of humility, as he goes out of his way to laud his brilliant younger sister, so very proud of her budding career as a Circle teacher. And even if he has not much use for his brains (perhaps he would have rattled them more, and with better results, if he did not over-exaggerrate his own dimness), he still has plenty of brawn, and that brawn is fully at the service of Kirkwall. Just point him at a bad guy, and he will start punching; there is nothing he likes better than keeping the city streets safe. And even if he is a stupid skull-crusher, there is a whole band of buddies that love him just the way he is - especially the sweet little elf who is not afraid of repeating that, over and over again.  
  
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Elissa Hawke, and she has never asked for this role, feeling awful that her own darling brother, the only family she has left, is trapped on her shadow… Which she really wishes she did not cast in the first place. Talk, rake-thin and pale as a wraith, with faded-blonde eyelashes framing her icy-blue eyes, she stutters and sniffles when she talks and is mortally terrified of large crowds. Her heart getting shattered into smaller and smaller pieces with each hardship and loss that befalls her and her city, she is often beleaguered by nightmares, and fears that her own magic will make her volatile and dangerous. But still, she perseveres, in her own, quiet way, and rises up to her duty as the Champion, not through boisterous hospitality like Summer or crime-fighting feats like Donnie, but through gentle, wordless gestures of compassion. She has the best, most soothing silences, which, despite her affinity for ice magic, seem to make the room grow warmer, and can mellow the heart even of a mage-wary former slave.  
  
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Roy Hawke, and Maker, who could expect a Fereldan bumpkin to be so at home in the Viscount’s Keep? His mother, still keeping reminiscences of her parents’ high-class lifestyle alive, would teach the tiny, olive-skinned, curly-haired boy the rules of courtly etiquette, from the types of bows you give to people to the way you behave at the dinner table. The twins were also subjected to that, while Malcolm watched in silent amusement - but Roy was the only one who both enjoyed his lessons and firmly committed them to memory. And now that he had matured into a petite, graceful man with a long ponytail and a carefully trimmed goatee, a man whose suave courtship has made Merrill squeal and blush so very many times, he can finally put all he’s learned into practice. With his fluid, cat-like motions, a ready smile and a set of perfectly honed compliments always at the tip of his tongue, a keen eye for subtle gestures and veiled hints, and a fair share of business acumen, he thrives in the Kirkwall Hightown, pouring all of his sizeable revenues into improving the living and working conditions of his countrymen and helping Varric support their mutual friends. But, much as the world of perfumes and fine silks and impeccably organized ledgers beckons him, he does not shy away of getting his manicured hands dirty by taking down a few bandits or slavers or corrupt Templars or rampaging blood mages. After all, if you want something done, best do it yourself.  
  
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Ursa Hawke, and when she takes off her warrior’s helm, many people are shocked to discover that this tall, bulky woman has the brownish-grey skin and lilac eyes of a Qunari. For this is what she is: a foundling taken in by Malcolm and Leandra Hawke a few years before their own twin children were born. And growing up among so many outsiders who would think her a mindless, aggressive barbarian, and later on, having to deal with so many warriors of her own race who sneer at her and call her ‘basra’, she has often found her sense of identity shaken and challenged. But at the end of the day, Hawke is what she truly  is. She has the rational mind and the stoic willpower of a Qunari, and the raw strength of a rampaging Tal-Vashoth, and the big, caring heart of a human. She is good at enduring pain - so let her endure it, for the sake of ensuring the safety and happiness of her friends, her found family, her wonderful assembly of kadans. With the most kadan-ey kadan being the one who has actually seen glimpses of her culture on Seheron, and made her realize that she actually wants to embrace this part of her, without rejecting what she learned as a basra.  
  
Sometimes, the Champion of Kirkwall is called Aristide Hawke - named so after his grandfather, in an attempt to smooth over the affront of the old man’s daughter running away with an oxman mercenary, who had chosen the human alias Malcolm Hawke after leaving the Qun. Unfortunately, the proud name Aristide does not quite go with the Champion’s appearance: unlike his brother, who has inherited all of the attractive Qunari musculature, he has turned out awkward and gangly, with long arms that thrash mercilessly at any fragile objects in the vicinity (hence Varric’s nickname for him, Teacup), and a slightly chubby, pear-shaped body. Dreamy and absentminded, this clueless mage would rather stay at home and write poetry (mostly about the beautateous Queen of the Eastern Seas, whom he’s utterly and embarrassingly smitten with), but that is going to have to wait, because the whole city has this annoying habit of setting itself on fire (through no fault of his… usually) that he has to put out. And, well, he would feel kind of bad if he didn’t.  
  
Sometimes, the Champions of Kirkwall are different. They are neither better or worse than Garrett and Marian; nor do they try to outshine them. They just… exist, in their own right; they struggle and fail and succeed; they go on adventures and make deals with (sometimes shady) allies and fall in love. And the many versions of Varric and Fenris and Isabela and Merrill and Anders and Aveline, and sometimes Sebastian, which exist in their little pocket universes and tag along on their shenanigans, care for them just the same.


End file.
